Talking of Operations.

Star (Christchurch), Volume XLIV, Issue 563, 17 September 1932, Page 17 (Supplement)

Talking of Operations .

Deep, Deep Breaths” and it's all over .

(Written for the “Star” by

RONA WHEELER .)

WHY PEOPLE are scared of operations I simply cannot for one moment imagine; but if a doctor is convinced there is something the matter with you, it isn’t any use to argue. I called on my pet medical adviser, who asked me innumerable questions, which seemed miles off the point. “ Yes, I had a slight pain last Easter, but nothing really.” Then things happened suddenly. lie spoke through the telephone at his elbow, and my next clear recollection was being pushed in a

wheel chair—able-bodied, feeling per- ( fectly fit —in the direction of a ward: I J looked at my attendant galaxy of nurses and porters. All had that air j of how-brave-one-must-be. I bowed to the inevitable and tried to look pale. \ B}' the time we reached the ward : the truth was forced upon me. A little ’ ginger nurse with bright eyes and a • large sheet of paper commenced the j onslaught: Was T a Jew? No, 1 was c sorry, I wasn’t. A spurt of hope Hick- 1 ered. Was I a Roman Catholic? No, ; I was sorry about that, too, but it < couldn’t be helped. What was the name i ' of my next of kin? Well, I hadn’t got ; in England. She gazed at me inf-

astonishment. Obviously everybody :i ! England has a next of kin. I offeree her somebody in New Zealand as '<■ bait, but it wasn’t palatable, so I prof ! lered the name of an English friend j whom I secretly prayed wouldn’t b< ; too annoyed about it. j I called her back. “ Why do yoi want me to be a Je\v or a Romai |Catholic? ” I asked, and pressed ai i answer. “ Well, you see, it —er- any thing happens you might—er want £ priest and if—er—anything happens £

Gentile can’t perform last offices for a Jew, if —er —anything happens.” Truly, it sounded as if—er—anything might happen. But the bed was lovely, soft and warm, and the coal fire flickered. “This,” said I to myself, “ is what I’ve been wanting for weeks,” but mv purring was cut sharply into little pieces. A gaunt woman with feet like barges fell j on me with a thermometer. I moved j to take it. “ Don’t move,” she said in a Sexton Blake sort of voice. I cow- j ered, knowing perfectly well that there j really was nothing the matter with me at all; but slowly the accumulation of I ,the surge firmness, and the wheel-1

chair, and that be-brave look, and the ! fact that I wasn’t a Jew and didn’t have a next-of-kin swept across me, and I felt I wanted to die of all those causes, and pain wrapped me up, then j tore me apart and buffeted me and j pushed me. I had a grand time. People trotted round my bed in the ! morning. “ You’re going up first,” they : said. “Aren’t you lucky! ” It was a ; lovely day for an operation. Barges and tugs were lumbering up and down the Thames, Big Ben was striking deep i and resonant, and the sun was flickering on the polished ward tables. A : little voice suggested that people somej times died under an anaesthetic, j another little voice started to say that the percentage of street accidents was much higher, so why go shopping? One dresses for the formal occasion. Correct wear, in season and out of season, is essential. One’s boots, for instance, must be of the stocking variety, long, elegant white wool affairs shall we say, fitting occasionally here and there. Sometimes they stay on, other times not. One’s robe de style is made a la princesse; in other words, on a yoke and opening down the back; it also fits, shall we say, occasionally. One’s hair can be dressed to any favourite mode, but one’s tummy is the most elegant of all, hand-painted a glorious shade of brilliant yellow and a small tray cloth of Irish linen placed on top to mask the splendour. A hospital theatre is such a sane place. People trotted past me in the lobby—nurses passed the time of day, the porter made a joke about the Derby, the theatre boy whizzed by and pretended to sweep someone’s boots up. I tried to produce some witty contribution to the morning’s play. Then I was gently slid into the anaesthetic room, a deep voice said, ” I don’t think you’ll mind this very ; much. Just take deep, deep breaths.” 1 heard an express train somewhere, and there had been a resolution about | not kicking, but how silly to have a i resolution when there wasn’t anv need—and. anyway, shopping is dangerous. Why people are scared o£ I operations I can’t imagine. k